


A Taste of Power

by jillyfae



Series: Blood and Lyrium [2]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: F/F, F/M, Femslash, Flirting, Manipulation, Politics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-12
Updated: 2017-10-05
Packaged: 2017-12-20 16:57:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/889660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jillyfae/pseuds/jillyfae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just precisely what does it take to take and keep control, most especially amongst Kirkwall's corrupt and elite?</p><p>A series of vignettes regarding a selection of Theia Hawke's <i>encounters</i> with power.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. caress of shadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prologue

Leandra never did ask how they got aboard. Hawke was never sure if she just didn't want to know, or she was so far gone into her own special Amell brand of grief and arrogance that it never occurred to her that they _wouldn't_ get a spot on one of the crowded refugee ships. 

Leandra didn't care to know of the things her children did to keep her safe. Never helped clean up the blood of the thugs Carver had to kill to safeguard their small store of coin, never gave a thought to the guard Hawke went down on in a dark alley (by no means the first such encounter in Hawke's life, though Leandra hadn't noticed any of them either), so said guard wouldn't take Carver in for questioning and ruin their already small chance of making it out of town. 

She didn't help with the job that finally got them on a Captain's good side, the little bit of thievery that got him a small trunk of cargo valuable enough to pay for the trip to Kirkwall all by itself, making his hold full of refugees into pure profit. 

They made sure Aveline didn't know about that one either. She probably would have helped, but she equally probably would have felt poorly about it later. 

Besides, knowing how to work together on a job was more important in avoiding detection than an extra bit of muscle. 

Coming back afterwards, with no Bethany to check for scrapes and chide them for taking too many risks, was harder than any part of the job itself, anyways. 

Bethany might never have helped directly with her siblings' "jobs" but she'd always noticed, always protected them as much as she was able. 

She never had forgiven herself that most of what they did was to protect her. 

Protecting her memory was hollow in comparison, but it was almost all they had left. Memories of father, of Bethany, of who Leandra used to be, of what, ever so briefly in that small window after they'd moved to Lothering and before Bethany's magic came, a home could be. 

If Kirkwall was their chance to give that to Leandra again, a few questionable encounters were worth the price. 


	2. weight of armor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Act I

The Knight Captain had a ridiculously tiny office considering his rank, his desk shoved up against the wall, one bookshelf, a safe tucked way back beneath the bottom shelf, an arrow slit for a window, and an armour stand. 

A rather dusty armour stand. It seemed the man never took off his armour at all. 

Which rather explained his troubles at the Rose, now didn't it? 

"While I must thank you for your assistance," and oh, how much that necessary gratitude seemed to pain him, his words slow and careful, his hands clasped behind his back, a hint of a frown creasing between his eyebrows, "I wonder how much I should trust your assessment of my recruit." 

"Oh, I'm entirely untrustworthy, Knight Captain." Hawke sat on the corner of his desk, trying not to grin as he shifted very slightly backwards, only barely avoiding the brush of her skirts against his leg. "That doesn't mean I'm wrong." 

"But you're not going to tell me how you know?" 

Hawke clicked her tongue, and very slightly shook her head. 

His eyes closed on a sigh, and she felt a bit bad for the poor man, shadows under his eyes and a too tight jawline. 

"If there's anything else I can do," she slid off the desk, standing close enough she was almost straddling his thigh, her breasts brushing against the hard line of his breastplate, "to ease your mind?" She leaned in even closer, let her breath brush against his jaw, watched it clench even tighter as he swallowed, "do please let me know?" 

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean, Serah Hawke." 

"Such a shame." She laughed softly, could see the tension build in the line of his neck, the stiffness of his stance. He was so very solid from this close, broad shouldered and deep chested. "Think what an easier time you would have had with your questions at the brothel, if you'd known what sort of things I mean, and hadn't let Lusine intimidate you." She finally stepped back, let herself sigh. "You might not have needed my help at all, then." 

"Madame Lusine does not intimidate me." His voice was practically strangled in his throat, the hint of a frown deepening into a full scowl. 

"Really?" Hawke lifted her brows, and smiled, sharp and hungry. "You're not very convincing, Knight-Captain. Do you want to know what they say about you there, having watched you flee their whispers and soft touches?" 

He made a terrible cut-off sort of growl, something wonderfully close to panic deep in his eyes. Hawke supposed that ought to mean she should stop pushing. 

_Fuck should._

"Very few Templars take a vow of chastity, and even those that do aren't particularly well known for keeping them." She tilted her head, took a deep enough breath to lift her chest, felt the hot surge of satisfaction as his glance dropped, for just a moment, to watch the curve of her body. "However will you manage your recruits, if you don't acknowledge their lusts?" 

He stepped back, fingers clenching and unclenching at his sides, until he hit the bare wall behind him, a soft dull clank of metal against stone. 

She followed, stepped much too close again, let her voice drop to the barest whisper, hot against his throat. "However will you manage yourself, if you deny your own?" She lifted her chin, baring her throat to him, offering him her surrender, if he chose to take it. "Or do you really wish to risk being further indebted to someone like me, again, for asking the questions you won't?" 

His eyes closed, his breath escaping in a sigh that was almost a whine, and then nothing, his body held painfully still between her and the wall. She bit her lip, waited, _waited_ , and just as she was about to turn away, regret bitter down her throat, the heat of frustration twisting low beneath her stomach, his hand moved. 

It stopped almost immediately, the cool metal at the tips of his gauntlets just barely grazing against her cheek, his eyes open now, wide and dark, a fascinating combination of terror and hope. "I do not wish to hurt you." 

She hummed, swallowed down a louder cry of triumph. "What if I wish you to?" 

He shook his head. "I would not want to go too far." 

"I won't let you." 

A single brow lifted, a hint of the sardonic hiding somewhere beneath all that repression and duty. 

He had a point. She didn't look particularly intimidating, all soft curves and softer skin, round arms and heavy breasts and enough ass she'd had people trying to bend her over things since she was fourteen. 

He definitely had more muscles than she did. 

Possibly just in his pinky. 

Using magic on a hopefully painfully aroused Templar to even the odds was not a very sensible plan. 

Not that Hawke was particularly fond of sensible, but even she had her limits. Occasionally. 

She reached towards her hip, undid the peace-knot of leather that the guards always made her wrap around her dagger, and stepped back. "I'll keep my steel at hand, and you get rid of all of yours, how's that?" 

His eyes closed, relief this time, clear in the easing of his shoulders. As he reached slowly for the first strap of his armour, she wondered how long since he'd let himself go, how long since he'd found someone dangerous enough he trusted them to stop him. 

She wondered what he'd done, that he needed stopping. 

She wondered if he'd try it again, whatever it was, if she'd bruise beneath his hands, if she'd have to use her knife to keep him in check. 

If he'd ask her to use it, steel pressed against his throat as he fucked her. 

She licked her lips, felt her nostrils flare as she made herself breathe, as she watched him rack his armour. When he bent to deal with his boots, she reached under her skirt and slid off her smalls, dropping them on the floor in front of his toes, smiling again as he grunted. 

He stepped forward, faster than she'd expected, pulling her to him until she was pressed against his chest, one broad hand splayed across the small of her back, the other curving along the back of her head, and she whimpered against his mouth as he kissed her, a hard press of lips, that broken growl back, an echoing thrum catching in the back of her throat. 

And she managed, before his hands started to move and she abandoned thought in favor of the grip of his fingers and the catch of his callouses against her skin, to take a breath and smile. 

_This is a terrible idea._

_So glad I thought of it._


	3. kiss of steel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> between Act I and Act II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is all [anthology of what's](http://anthologyofwhat.tumblr.com/) fault, originally inspired by her prompt for [DAFW's](http://dragonagefanweek.tumblr.com/) fxf week.

Hawke met the Knight-Commander for the first time at the Keep.  Both of them invited to the same fancy  _affaire_ , the Viscount putting on his show as the real power of Kirkwall watched from the shadows, lantern-light limning the edges of her armor when she moved.

"Even here, Knight-Commander?"  Hawke glanced down at the Sword emblazoned on her breastplate, smiled as Stannard's eyes narrowed, her expression as hard and implacable as the steel she wore. "Do you not trust our Lord Dumar's security?"

An eyebrow almost lifted, and Hawke couldn't tell if she was amused or disgusted at the attempted baiting.  "It is a Templar's duty to be  _ever_  vigilant, Serah Hawke, not just when it is convenient or fashionable."

There was a trickle of fear, of course, cool down her spine, at the sound of her name falling from a Templar's mouth.  There was also the thrill of the chase to consider, the heat of adrenaline, the hopelessly enticing chance for success against a dangerous foe.  

Hawke always had enjoyed a challenge.

"Why I'm honored, Knight-Commander."  Hawke dropped into a curtsy, deep enough to lend a mocking edge to the light lift of her voice.  "You know my name.  And we've never even been properly introduced."

"Everyone knows who you are, there is no need to be coy."  There was the slightest shift to her lips, though she was still so hard to read,  _disgust, amusement, something else entirely?_   "A Fereldan claiming a place amongst Marcher nobility is not the sort of thing one can keep quiet."

"Do you prefer the quiet, Knight-Commander?"  Hawke kept her head bowed, just far enough to watch Stannard through her lashes, to hide the shift of her gaze as she focused on the pale lines of the other woman's face, still trying to read something in surprisingly pretty blue eyes.

"Of course."  Stannard almost snorted, a soft sound barely louder than her breath.  "The world only becomes loud when someone has failed to keep proper control of the situation."

 _Their new young recruits must all be half in love with her, strong and beautiful and terrifying._ If Hawke didn't think it likely to get her Traquil'd, she'd be tempted to seduce the woman herself, to try and see the strong lines of the body that carried such weight upon its shoulders.   _Do you like rope or leather or silk, Meredith?_ "Well, I certainly must agree with the appeal of some judicious control."

"Do you now?" The eyebrow lifted in truth, now, admitting to some slight surprise.  "I would not have expected that."

"You had  _expectations_?" Hawke couldn't help the smile, couldn't resist the tilt of her chin to stretch her neck, to highlight the line of skin all the way down to the beading along the top hem of her bodice.  Couldn't help noticing the flicker of Stannard's eyes as she followed the invitation and looked, however briefly, at Hawke's breasts.  "How intriguing. Whatever did you expect of me then?"

"Your kind have always seemed to revel in chaos."

"My kind?" It hurt to breathe, and yet she did, one hand lifting briefly to her mouth as if she was simply offended, not terrified,  _she knows,_  not tense with heat as she kept her mana tucked down tight beneath her skin, no hint of power to give her away.  "Do you mean prodigal children of the nobility? Or perhaps you imagine me a rough and dirty Dog Lord, like the worse sort of Orlesian morality tale?"  Her chest ached as she watched Stannard's face for the slightest give, the slightest tell, a shift of skin, a breath of air,  _a frown before she tries to kill me._   "We did just put a royal bastard on the throne.  That must seem like the height of insanity in more ... civilized lands."

The Knight-Commander actually smiled, small and tight but it was there, the slightest curve up on one side of her mouth, a glint of appreciation flashing in her eyes.  "Your bastard King did have the nerve to appoint a dwarf as an arlessa.  Orlais is quite horrified.  Keeps trying to insist no one should have anything to do with him."

"Well, the dwarf did help kill an Archdemon. Stopped a Blight. Saved the world."  Hawke let her voice drop to a whisper.  "Surprised he didn't try to make her Queen."

"Give him time, he still might."  Her voice was dry, that one eyebrow moving again, a graceful sardonic curve along her brow.

"Do you disapprove of the new arlessa?"

"Not at all." She shook her head, just a little, each word precise and perfectly articulated.  "It would do us all some good to have a few more people of merit granted the power they can handle."

"Plus no danger of mage blood in a dwarf."

Stannard's smile came back, a little wider this time, a slight hint of teeth.  "An excellent benefit, you must agree, considering what the touch of it did to your family."

"We appear to be recovering."

"Appearances can be deceiving."  Stannard paused, too sharp eyed to make the innocent drawl of her voice convincing.  "Isn't that what they say?"

"You wound me.  Whatever do you think we're hiding?"

"That is the question, isn't it?"

Hawke spread her hands, eyes as wide open and innocent as she could make them.  "There's nothing here beyond what you can see, I swear."

Stannard  _looked,_  just looked, cool and calm and impassive, and still her gaze felt like a brand hovering above Hawke's skin.

Hawke felt her muscles clench, her chest lift with her breath, a flush of heat beneath her skin that had nothing to do with mana, and everything to do with sex and the steady regard of those damn eyes.  "Did you want a closer look?"

"Whatever do you mean?"

Hawke stepped close,  _too close,_  cool steel almost pressing against the silk of her gown, her whisper aimed for Meredith's ears alone.  "You know exactly what I mean.  Who's playing coy now?"

"Why would Kirkwall's newest young noble wish to offer herself up to me?"  Stannard's voice was quiet, but not soft, never, nothing of her but the fall of golden hair against her cheek was soft.  "Most people only do that to try and protect a mage from my duty."

"And you wonder who I'm protecting?"  Hawke shook her head, let the echo of true grief pass through her thoughts.  "If I'm as famous as you say, you know I'm the only Hawke left.  Unless you think  _Leandra Amell_  successfully hid a mage gift all those years before she met my father?"

Stannard's lips twitched, actual amusement,  _Leandra is many things, but decidedly not a mage,_  and Hawke wondered at how they'd feel against her skin, strong and softly curving.  

_Templars should never be so very tempting.  It's quite unfair._

"Do you think so little of your own charms?"  Hawke surprised herself with the breadth of her own smile, the honesty of what she was about to say.  "You are beautiful, and powerful, and practically untouchable." She shifted her hips, listened to the silk of her skirt shift and slide against armor.  "I do so enjoy touching precisely what,  _or who,_  I'm supposed to leave alone."

"And that's an invitation I should find intriguing?"  Stannard's voice had dropped, low and warm, and Hawke made no attempt at all to hide her appreciation, a sigh of breath before she licked her lips.

"I would not dare claim myself at all worthy of your attention."  But she had Stannard's attention anyways, Hawke could tell, the slightest tilt of her head forward, her gaze steady, completely ignoring the rest of the room.  "But there you are, locked in the Gallows, surrounded by subordinates all the time.  You might, perhaps, enjoy a bit of time with someone who  _chooses_  to submit, just for awhile."

"You think so, do you?"

"Not at all." Hawke stepped away at last, let her smile soften, leaned back just enough to emphasize the curve of breast and hip.  "I merely hope."

Stannard's eyes were light, her voice smooth rather than chiding. "Hope is the last refuge of the childish."

"I assure you, I am not a child."

"I can see that."  She blinked, once, slow and sure, her lips parting just a little, just enough to taste the air between them.  "This way then."

Hawke's eyes widened, and she almost had to skip to catch up and follow the taller woman as she turned.  "What, now?"

"Is there any particular reason we should wait?" Stannard turned and looked over her shoulder, a completely different sort of smile crossing her face, hot and predatory.  "My rank guarantees me a suite here at the Keep.  We only need walk up one flight of stairs.  Unless you've changed your mind, of course." She paused, waiting for Hawke to stand beside her, close enough to whisper.  "I can promise you I won't give you that choice again, once I have you behind a locked door."

"Planning to chain me up if I try to flee, Templar?"

"I'm afraid this part of the Keep lacks chains, Noble."  Meredith paused as Hawke started up the stairs, her voice a caress against Hawke's spine as she followed.  "I have plenty of rope, however, if I need it."


	4. pinch of iron

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ["sharing a drink" for continuousspec](http://faejilly.tumblr.com/post/157555722883)
> 
> Act II

He doesn’t want to, but he’s polite, always too polite, _too polite to ever bother anyone, too polite to ever do his job,_  and Dumar offers her a drink.

Theia Hawke accepts, sips, smiles at him over the smooth line of crystal.

Is impressed despite herself at the quality of the brandy, at the way his expression stays smooth despite the sharp bright edge of the smile she gives him, the one she knows shows too many teeth, makes her eyes shine more than is _wise._

He takes a sip of his own, and his eyes blink too slowly, and she tilts her head as she considers, perhaps, it is not composure so much as it is exhaustion.

Maker knows she’d be tired if she had Saemus for a son and Meredith standing behind her with her sword glinting, pulled just a handsbreadth out of her scabbard, _waiting._

She does have Meredith waiting in all her shadows, sharp and shimmering.

She is tired.

She sighs, and puts her glass down.

“How do you do it?” She feels her eyes widen, almost lifts her hand to try and cover her mouth, try and put the words back in. She hasn’t spoken without thinking about it since she was _seven,_  why here, why _now?_

She shakes her head, unsure if she’s apologizing, or just trying to pretend she hadn’t slipped, _can’t afford to slip,_  but then she sees his smile, slow and tired.

“Here I was going to ask you the same thing, Messere Hawke.”

She blinks. He’d done that on purpose, putting her at ease, putting her above him. His voice is soft, almost rough. Respect, she thinks, not politics, and it warms something in her chest, eases something in her shoulders, and she sighs, and feels her smile relax into something less like a threat, more like sorrow. 

“I can go home at night, Viscount, and shut the door, and at least for a little while, no one is watching.”

His eyes close, too long to even pretend it is just a blink, and she can see the way the iron crown grips too tightly at his temples, weighs too heavily on his forehead. _All the responsibility, none of the power. Poor bastard._

She steps back, waits ‘til his eyes open to track the sound of her steps, the shift of her skirts, waits ‘til he’s watching before she locks his door. 

His eyebrows lift, and for the first time in their acquaintance his gaze drops from her face, lingers at her hips, settles for a half a breath at the dull metal buckle of her belt before lifting again. “Is that all, Theia?”

She breathes in, deep enough to shift the line of her belt, her blouse, to lift her breasts, lets her smile curl, smaller, warmer, as she stalks back towards his desk. “It’s more than enough, Marlowe.”

“Really?” He sits back in his chair, pushes it a step further back away from his desk, giving her room. “Perhaps it’s what you _do_  behind those closed doors that helps?”

She slips into the space he’d given her, sits on his desk, neither of them touching, not quite yet, though she can see the tension in his knuckles, in the stiff line of his shoulders. She leans closer, close enough she’s sure he’ll feel her breath against his cheek. “What would you do, if you could hide behind any door?”

His nostrils flare, and his voice goes flat, dark and hard in a way she’d never thought him capable, cruel enough she shivers, heavy enough her thighs part a little in anticipation. “Kill her.”

“If I could,” she whispers, trembling now, picturing it, _wanting it,_ a world without Meredith, a Kirkwall where the Viscount could dare to be a Viscount… 

“Thank you,” he breathes, his eyes too wide, too wild, and his grip is surprisingly strong as he pulls her head to his and kisses her, hard. She lets herself moan into his mouth, enjoys the way his fingers tighten, his lips press, his tongue flicks against her mouth before he pulls away. 

She’s prepared to slide forward, to fit herself between his thighs, to drop her mouth to his cock, to service him; is looking forward to it, even, the heat of his cock and the power of the Viscount, however constrained, between her lips, but instead he pushes her back, and she braces herself on her elbows and lets out a staggered sort of sigh as he pushes her skirts up, and it is her thighs that spread to let his head fit between them.

She bites her lip, has to grip the edge of the desk not to fall, not to scream, she cannot stop the whine of her breath as her hips ache, as her legs spread wider, as her head falls back and her eyes close and it is _sacrilege,_  that a man so good with his mouth is so seldom allowed to speak, and she almost comes with a grunt and a jerk but he slows, and she swears, and he _laughs,_  which isn’t a thing she can ever describe, even to herself, the feel of a man laughing into her cunt, but she loves it, almost loves him, just a little, because of it, pleasure offered for no reason beyond itself, pleasure accepted without any other cost. He doesn’t stop, eloquent with lips and tongue and the shift of his jaw and actual words, a thrum against her skin, _inside her,_  and she gasps, moans again, almost claws at the desk to stop herself from clawing at him, from scratching across the smooth skin of his scalp where anyone could see as she jerks and bucks against his mouth until she comes, rough and burning and messy, release and relief with an inelegant groan and a drawn out shudder.

She lies there, breathing heavy and unsteady, spread across his desk, unable to plan her next move, unable to think, for once, of anything at all beyond the feel of his hands as he undoes her blouse, as he touches her breasts, her stomach, her hips, but she notices as his hands leave her skin, manages to focus enough to watch as he takes off his blouse and undershirt, as he undoes his belt, lifts her chin enough to watch his face as cock is freed, as he adjusts her skirt, her hips, as he leans in, into her, watches him as he watches her as he fills her, as she lets him take her, and it’s only when his eyes close at last, his hips pressed tight to her body, that she speaks. 

“Here,” she asks and he leans down, pushing his cock deeper inside her, and she gasps with the feel, the heat inside her, and as soon as he’s close enough, bending over her, she reaches up to lift off his crown, and as his eyes open she chucks it to the side, grinning at him as it clangs against the wall. He smiles back, sharper and brighter than she thought him capable yesterday, and then he rolls his hips, and she follows, eyes fluttering and chest aching, body aching as he does it again. He never pulls out, never shifts back or forward, never thrusts, never fucks, just rolls, his cock hot and hard deep inside her, moving, _moving,_ slowly, steady, never leaving, never speeding up, no matter how she claws at his arms, his chest, no matter how she swears, how she lifts up and presses against him, how she kisses, nips at the line of his throat, his jaw. Until her hips curve up, and she clings, and she trembles, because she can’t _she can’t,_  and she begs, a whisper right into his ear, “please.”

He grunts, and his hips snap, hard and fast, and she’s blind, and it hurts how hard she comes, deep and twisting, and it’s euphoria, flying, joy in the gasp of air as she yells, as her eyes open, as she gives herself over to it, to him.

He kisses her again, slower now, softer, and his hips shift and his cock slips out of her and he bites her lip, short and sharp, _never again,_  she knows, she understands, before he stands and steps back. She blows him a kiss, only half as sarcastic as usual, and he shakes his head before pulling her skirt down over her knees and pulling her blouse closed.


	5. hint of sorrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Act II

Sometimes Dumar met her eyes now, a sidelong glance across a room, a pause before he sipped his wine, a hint of a smile softening his brow, subtle enough even she almost missed it.

Now that she was watching, was hiding her own impulse to smile back, she noticed a lot of things she'd missed:  he knew every noble by name, every servant's face, every twist of his Keep's Halls. He slipped extra tips towards the servants who most needed them, he always knew which noble needed an ear, a touch of a hand to their shoulder to ease whatever stress was building in Hightown. He couldn't do much, but at least he knew, and it helped those he listened to that someone knew.

Someone cared. 

She saw now how much he was like Saemus; they both cared too much, the poor bastards. How similar were their eyes, the lift of their chins when they were feeling obstinate.

Though when wasn't Saemus being obstinate?

Dumar was a better politician than anyone gave him credit for, though clearly he cultivated that reputation to keep the Knight Commander as far away as possible. He usually hid the obstinate, but she knew it was there. She quite appreciated the skill that kept it hidden.

Sometimes that one fleeting glance would be all they'd share at a party or a meeting, but sometimes they'd drift up against each other, share a look, a smile, a word or two. It was safe enough, even with the cold hard glint of Meredith's armor always somewhere in the background.

Today though, there was the hint of a crease between his brows, a frown mostly hidden as he looked at her, and she realized she'd been letting herself stare at Saemus' distinctively messy hair as he stood by the balcony, arguing with one of the de Launcet girls, arms moving and eyes flashing dramatically.

He made her feel old. She didn't know how Marlowe could stand it.

"I would hate to... pry into a lady's reputation," Marlowe's voice was soft, so low she almost couldn't hear it, and she almost ruined his subtlety completely by snorting aloud at the lift he gave the word _reputation._ "But you have not... offered my son... comfort?"

_Saemus' back curves, his fingers claw and scrabble against the floor beneath him, sweat gathering between his shoulder blades, matting his hair, swearing and muttering words she can't hear, probably wouldn't recognize, interrupted by a grunt or a gasp each time her hips snap, driving the strap-on deep inside him, again, again, she's come twice from the rub of leather between her legs, there's a tremor deep in the muscles of her thighs, she can feel the shift of slick and sweat across her own skin, and still he writhes, and bucks, and pushes back against each thrust, until at last, at last, he yells, a word with too many hard consonants to be for her, and his hips shudder and his shoulders tense and his back quivers and he goes still, so still, quiet except for his breath, heavy and ragged._

_She touches him, fingers soft against his hip as she slips free, steps back, begins to unbuckle as he sighs, rolls over, arms and legs splayed across the floor, only just avoiding landing in the mess he'd made. His knees and elbows are red and raw, his fingernails cracked and splintering, one gone dark red from the bruise beneath the nail.  She takes half a step forward, reaching for the rag, the pitcher of water, but he waves her away, his voice rough and unsteady. "Thank you, but go."_

"Comfort, messere?" She lifted her eyebrows, as if she had _no idea_ what he could mean.

Marlowe didn't quite roll his eyes, but his restraint was so pointed as to be noticeable.

"Saemus is not the sort to accept comfort." It was the truth, after all, even if it didn't answer his question. She didn't think an answer to his question would help, was sure it would make what ease she'd managed to provide them both turn bitter, and she did quite _like_ the Dumar men despite herself.

They deserved better than Kirkwall.

Didn't everyone though?

Except maybe Meredith. And Petrice. _Me._

Marlowe sighed, accepting her deflection. "He certainly does not."

"But he has also never carried such weights, has he?" Hawke shrugged, a flick of her hand pointing towards the Viscount's twisted iron crown. "He does not have the sorts of responsibilities that need to be put down, once in a while, to let himself breathe." _Passion, pain, grief, idealism... but not a whole city clinging desperately to him, scrabbling and crawling and pushing him down so they can climb higher and higher upon his shoulders._

"Hopefully he never will." Dumar was back, a sharp edge to his whisper as they both avoided looking towards Meredith's corner. "Thank you."

"Fare thee well, Viscount." She nodded, and watched him slip away to deal with whatever was next on his endless list of duties.

She had other work tonight, herself.


End file.
